


Dead Weight

by sundownsymptoms



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Homophobia, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22623691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundownsymptoms/pseuds/sundownsymptoms
Summary: Scars can tell stories, bringing insight into a distant past. Bullet wounds, knife nicks, wild animal lacerations—all of which can become little mementos forever etched into the skin, never to be forgotten. Matthew McCabe’s life is nothing if not a storied one.
Kudos: 3





	Dead Weight

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my friend Maureen for always checking over my work for me! <3

“Scarred skin

grows back

stronger

and so

will we.”

– A.R. //  _ my body tells a story _

  
  


(...)

  
  


Scars can tell stories, bringing insight into a distant past. Bullet wounds, knife nicks, wild animal lacerations — all of which can become little mementos forever etched into the skin, never to be forgotten. Matthew McCabe’s life is nothing if not a storied one. From head to toe, Matthew’s body is littered with tokens of remembrance. Like the angry marking on his left hip bone where the tissue roughly tried to heal over, a memory from the time when a piece of rifle lead had gone clean through his body and exited out his lower back. He remembers the day. Not well, but it’s hard to forget the pain he felt in the moment that a Jacobson Boy had almost outshot him.  _ Almost.  _ Matthew met his mark on his target, dead on. Straight through the head. The Jacobson Boy? Well, to put it nicely, he hadn’t hit Matthew as directly as he could’ve.

Matthew’s most noticeable scar will always be the one that seeps into the corner of his mouth, small cracks in the stubble. He’ll catch glances of it in the reflection of his fractured hand mirror sometimes. He hates when he does. Not for how it looks, seeing as he’s not a conceited man, though some men can be. Even someone like him who tries to find beauty in everything, pride in vanity isn’t his sin to bear. It’s the wrath he hopes to wreak for even having earned it, fuel to the fire for his hatred. It seems that God, out of spite for him, forces Matthew to relive the day he was damned with it. The memory wasn’t simply etched into his skin but ingrained into his brain, haunting him in his sleep and burdening him with hatred-filled nightmares. With an old friend’s bandana, he had hidden the lower half of his face for months, willing the damage that had been done to mend itself overnight and to disappear into nothing. Were he a more of a religious individual, perhaps he might’ve prayed for the great and almighty God in the sky to bless him with His healing hands. Maybe that’s why God refuses to let him live it down. Even after it had finally healed over, the scar left behind made certain that Matthew wouldn’t forget what had happened. And he never did, an ache in the chest every time he ran his fingers over it with a distant anger and embarrassment.

(...)

May, 1893; that’s where his God-given nightmares took him. The end of spring’s fair weather and the impending arrival of summer’s hellish highs. Matthew was roaming the Heartlands, searching for more signs of Lou Jacobson’s gang along with his sons. They’d left him with a vendetta long ago, Matthew wanting to write out their names in their own blood, or perhaps he should write his family’s name instead should they feel repentance for the McCabes and what they did to them — to him. Lou was the one that led an attack on Matthew’s home eight years ago, stealing his family’s livelihood, killing his father and brother, and shattering all he’d ever known into complete shambles. He craved justice for his family but he had remained tied down, having promised to take care of his mother and sister, and he did just that up until his mother had died five years later due to an unknown illness. They never could afford a doctor. As for his sister, Allie, she hit the road sooner than Matthew could blink at their mother’s deathbed, her bags packed for a new life in the city, supposedly having grown bored of the country. He knew that she, deep down, feared staying in the country after what had happened to them. He still did too, sometimes. But he simply feared city-living more, wary of the aspect of the unknown. Because of their departures, he finally had found the freedom he needed to hunt down those that were responsible for leaving his life in ruin. Which led him to the Heartlands, journeying further inward as he sought the head of one of Lou’s many sons, Jesse, who oversaw the New Hanover faction for the Jacobson Boys gang. Lou had put his father in a coffin, buried beneath the earth. Only fair if he returns the favor. How would the snake feel if Matthew put Jesse in one of his own?

It was a question that he couldn’t wait to find out the answer to, spurring him forward and wasting no time in tracking the gang’s movement through the Heartlands like they were nothing but a herd of animals, hunting them. Years of hunting trips with his father and brother had proved their worth in a whole different setting; he learned that when his journey had taken him to New Austin the year before and killed Lou’s other son, the lead of the gang’s desert faction. It was his first kill of great significance, Mark Jacobson. Still, he was labelled a ‘nobody’ in Lou’s eyes, not worth his attention. Not yet. Matthew would be soon, he guaranteed it. The death of his father and brother had hurt like hell, but even more salt was poured into the wound when he’d lost one of his own in the Rathskeller gunfight, a man named Calvin. He would not let the man’s life be another to have died in vain for him.

Dreams never forget details, the Devil is in them after all, his brain recalling how Matthew had picked up a trail just beyond the Firwood Rise property. He followed what he hoped to be a Jacobson patrol’s path in and out of the Cumberland Forest before it finally came to a stop at the farthest western part of the New Hanover region, revealing to him that they’d made their hideout at Bacchus Station, an old freight stop for trains in the middle of a clearing in the woods. The sky had fallen dark by this point, nighttime granting him an advantage. One lonely man was posted out in the open, sitting vigilant next to the tracks with a rifle in hand; their very own Cerberus, guarding the gates to a lawless little realm full of crooked, damned souls. Matthew couldn’t wait to put them out of their misery, and in turn, to bring about an end his own torment by putting a bullet in their skulls. Their deaths would kindly offer retribution for his father and brother’s murders, and foolishly, Matthew hoped that killing them might offer him catharsis, filling in the black empty void in his heart that his family’s passings had left behind.

The Jacobson Boys would never lay a harmful hand on any poor, innocent folk like them ever again. He’d make damned sure of that.

Matthew hitched his horse among the trees back in Cumberland Forest, out of sight from Jacobson Boys or passerbys on the nearest road. Strawberry Shake’s red coat makes her a stark silhouette but hopefully the veil of trees will keep her well-hidden and sheltered. The last thing Matthew needed was for his trusty steed to be shot or stolen, so hiding it from prying eyes was his best bet. Should he continue to travel to the ends of the earth like this, venturing deep into outlandish territories, he imagined that he wouldn’t get too far without a ride at his every beck and call. Plus, Strawberry Shake is more to him than just a simple steed. She’s company, and the only kind he tended to keep these days.

He fetched his Lancaster and pump-action from the side of the saddle before making a break up the hill for Bacchus Station, hands sweaty and breathing shaky. His heart began beating rapidly in his chest, adrenaline reaching its high before he’s even started pulling the trigger and putting bastards in the dirt, though he’s desperately longing to. Mind working a mile a minute, his body, blood burning, struggled to catch up with his brain, busy preparing itself for whatever it was he was trying to do. Whatever it took to kill them, even if it meant risking his own neck by taking a bullet or two, he’d do it, but if he didn’t play his hand right, he’d be as dead as a nail in the coffin for trying to take out a stronghold all on his own; he’d be careful to avoid that, or worse, avoid getting caught. Being captured wasn’t an option he particularly liked thinking about, not fond of the idea of being left at the mercy of his enemies. Dying, however, he thought of often. He feared it, in truth: death’s welcoming embrace. On behalf of others, he resented the thought of what might happen if, in the end, he didn’t live to stop the reign of Lou Jacobson’s terror. Many more would die— _ hell, _ who knew how many have already died because of them? His father, brother, Calvin. That’s just three. Three too many. The way Matthew saw it: if he doesn’t stop them, who else would? And who was he to take this burden upon himself and carry it? He was nothing but a man, the most agonized creature of all that breathed and walked the earth, tied down by a vow to he had to keep. He had to try. For the loved ones he’s lost. He always had to try. Hopeful, naive Matthew. He stopped to fiddle with his father’s old ring dangling from his neck, fingertips brushing daintily over the triple knots engraved into the rusted silver. ‘Be with me,’ he had prayed, though he didn’t particularly believe he’d receive an answer. With a fierce fire in his eyes and determination in his step, he stalked up the road towards the lone guard, blanketed in the cover of the night.

Rifle thrown over his shoulder and shotgun secured around his middle, he opted to keep his weapons on his back for the time being in favor of pulling out a knife instead. Probably smarter for Matthew to kill a few of the men quietly rather than to just go in, guns ablazing, and alert the entirety of New Hanover with the ruckus that accompanied a shootout. If he can avoid letting this raid become a huge thorn in his side, then avoid it he will, trying his damndest to get his nerves settled for the trial of stealth that awaited him. Knees weak, trembling, he keeps crouched down low to the ground and using the brush as cover until he’s quietly crept up near enough to go in for the kill, closing any distance left between him and the lone gunman who had his back turned, unaware. Didn’t anyone ever tell him to keep his eyes on the road? Matthew jabbed the clean blade of his knife into the unsuspecting victim’s neck, black steel glinting in the moonlight. He digs the metal into the bastard’s jugular, tearing into his vocal chords and rendering him mute, unable to yell or scream for help. Matthew listened, like music to his ears, when the most the fucker could do was choke desperately for air to reach his lungs around the blood and blade lodged in his throat, sounding not unlike a fish out of its element. It’s not the first time he’s watched a man die, nor is it the first time he’s killed a Jacobson Boy, watching silently, mouth curled into a frown as crimson spurts of blood splatter onto the side of his cheek and drip down from the blade to the grass beneath his feet. Life finally left the man’s eyes completely, and Matthew lowered his limp body to the ground, careful not to make a sound. One down, who knows how many more were left still standing. He couldn’t wait to see the horde of them dead, littering the earth and left to rot. It would bring him the satisfaction he so sorely needed. He pulled the man’s corpse behind the crate he’d been posted at, hiding it from open eyesight before he ducked his head down for cover. A few minutes passed and there were no signs of the Jacobson Boys having been alerted. Matthew spared a quick peek around the corner of the crate to look for another target, needing to quickly decide who he should head for next. Another guard was leaned up against the side of the cargo building, a cigarette in one hand, rifle in the other, hard at work and unaware, it seemed. Perfect.

Cloaked in darkness, Matthew felt confident enough to make a break for it, crossing quickly over the road to kill his next target. He flicked off the guy’s blood from the end of his blade, courtesy of his last kill, holding onto the hilt with a tight, white-knuckle grip as he deliberately evaded the guard’s line of sight and walked up behind him. Airing on the side of caution, Matthew held his breath and kept his footsteps quiet, gently stepping atop the wooden planks of the building’s platform, staying true to his goal of not being heard nor seen so soon. One of Matthew’s gloved hands goes over the man’s mouth, covering it to muffle his screams to come before all but gouging the knife into his lower back, digging into the area to the left of his weak spine. He wrenched it in, deeper and deeper, tearing and cutting apart the man’s innards until he finally started to go limp in Matthew’s arms, dying from sheer shock and the agony of feeling his insides being destroyed. He lets the stranger’s body drop down next to his feet with a dull thud, stepping over it and turning the corner right in time to see a patrolling guard waltzing up to the scene of the crime, rifle in tow. Fear seized hold on him, having to resist the strong urge to stop dead in his tracks and skirted back around the edge of building, taking a moment to steel himself. The patrolman was bigger than the most, his bootsteps falling heavy on the platform as he made his steady approach, each and every footfall weighed down heavier and heavier than the last, reinforcing the weight of terror on his chest. It left a tangle of anxiety in his heart, feeling like a black-tailed jack rabbit that had heard the howl of a starving wolf, worried that he was going to be caught in between their angry jaws too soon. The guard slowed before he came to a complete halt in his stride, likely due to noticing his fellow gangmate’s putrid body lying on the platform before him, investigating for confirmation on if his eyes were deceiving him or not. Matthew pressed further into the wall behind his back, hiding in the shadows in the corner of the guard’s vision and keeping himself hushed as if he were the one pushing up daisies instead.

“What in  _ blazes? _ ” The man questioned, accent thick with a drawl that Matthew could only compare to the Southern twang of the residents of Rhodes. “Who’s out there?!”

Matthew hadn’t hesitated when the man held his rifle up into the air, barrel pointed over into the treeline ahead, and pierced his knife into the back of the big guy’s neck while he still had the upper hand. The blade impaled through the bone, impaling straight into the spinal column, causing the man to let go of his bolt action, landing in the dirt. Before he even thought about ripping the metal out, the stranger quickly spun around on his heel, dashing Matthew’s hopes of adding a third victim to his list by removing the knife himself with a loud grunt, eyes flashing angrily. Blood spurted out from the wound, and yet the big bastard still acted as if the knife had been nothing but a thorn in his side, a minor inconvenience. He threw the weapon to the ground, the sound of metal clattering uselessly to the wooden platform filled the space of silence between them, Matthew watching it with a despondent look. Their eyes met for a flicker of a second, Matthew slack-jawed, knowing, deep down, he fucked up. The big guy?  _ He _ knows that  _ Matthew knows  _ he fucked up, glaring daggers into him, having spotted the intruder.

“Shite,” is the only word to have escaped Matthew’s lips.

In hindsight, he should’ve seen the punch coming from a mile away, but he’ll blame that on the whole lot of cotton that had filled his head and muddled his senses. A fist connected straight with Matthew’s jaw, hitting so squarely that he was sent stumbling backwards and left cradling his face. He remembers this part more vividly than he’d like to. He’d never been keen on fist-fights. Still isn’t. Too many bad memories. He could thank Finn McKinley for a few of them. In the worst scenarios, he’d freeze up, flight or fight instinct kicking in, body unable to decide what to do, being pulled in two different directions. That night, he had tried to fight back. He had to. Vision blurred by the sting of tears, Matthew spit out a mix of red saliva, wiping at the corner of his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, smearing it into his beard hair. It’s an impossibility for Matthew to beat the neanderthal in a one on one, not without playing dirty and shooting him, an idea which he had no quarrel with. The Jacobson Boys never fought with honor, so neither would he. The bastard readied himself into a fighting stance, his legs spread apart, thumbs tucked under his bruised knuckles. Matthew held back the yearning to laugh at him for it. Not a chance in hell that he would bother wasting the night by sitting there and trading punches. Instead, he charged forward and shouldered the idiot with the full force of his body, knocking him flat onto his back. With his opponent stunned, Matthew reached back for the shotgun slung over his shoulder and lined up the shot, taking advantage of the time it took for the man down at his feet to recover, scrambling onto his hands and knees, and snarling by the time Matthew was ready to fire. His fingers itched in the split second that the man lunged at him, and when push comes to shove, you must commit. Matthew pulled the trigger. Following the bright flare of orange light and sparks flying in the air, the Jacobson Boy’s head blasted into an explosive spray of bloody bits and pieces, leaving nothing but the man’s lower jaw and the column of his neck behind in the wake of the shotgun’s destruction. Matthew’s chest heaved, a shortage of breath failing to reach his lungs as he watched what’s left of the body flop over, limbs weightless. Slowly, he lowered the weapon, rooted to the spot as he tried to calm his nerves. Close-call, having narrowly avoided getting the shit beaten out of him again by the skin of his teeth. But Matthew isn’t given even a moment of peace, jolted back to action after high-pitched yells of startled confusion met his ears.  _ Stupid, _ he realized, rather belatedly. Made too much noise. If he had fought, perhaps he could have avoided raising alarms. It’s pathetic how quickly his mind and wits abandon him in fist-fights, fear completely taking hold of him. Angry, and a bit ashamed from forgetting to stay silent, he cocked the forearm of his shotgun. He knew that men would soon be upon him, ready to swarm like greedy vultures to a carcass, and for that, Matthew uneasily anticipated their arrival. Moving quickly, Matthew dropped down from the platform and into the shrubs next to a lone hitching post. The wooden planks of the platform hung over him, keeping him hidden on the lower ground from whoever had the courage to approach the source of the gunshot, whether it be a group of men or just one.

Seems he’s still in luck. Yet another Jacobson Boy came creeping out of the dark, unaccompanied, a solid shape amidst the blackness with a carbine repeater at his hip, playing the part of a little soldier marching onwards. He kept a slow pace, a certain caution in the steps he took as he wandered over to Matthew’s whereabouts only to find two dead men, one without a head and the other stabbed from behind, and no sign of an intruder.

“Ah,  _ hell, _ ” the Jacobson Boy muttered under his breath, prodding at one of the two dead bodies with the toe of his boot. “Hey, alert the boss!” He called out, turning his head to yell over his shoulder, speaking urgently. “Someone’s here!”

While the rest of the gang armed themselves to greet their guest, the loudmouth started scouring the area, searching for Matthew while he hid right under the cretin’s nose, gone unnoticed thus far. Matthew clutched to his pump-action, hoping Death’s appetite was as insatiable as the holy preachers said, ever-present, ever-hungry for sinners and saints alike to fill its bottomless belly. Death, he would provide. He waited until the Jacobson Boy turned tail before he struck, deadly and quick like the diamondback’s bite. Heart beating wildly, Matthew revealed himself by standing up from his spot crouched in the bushes, shotgun zeroed in on his target. He unloaded an entire magazine of pellet-filled slugs into his back, tearing open a hole through the poor swine’s middle, obliterating his vital organs into hundreds of pieces. What an example he’d made of him, splattering the colors of his entrails like red paint all over the splintery walls of the cargo building for the other Jacobson Boys to remember him by.

“There he is!” Someone shouted, finger pointed directly in Matthew’s direction followed by a chorus of hooting and hollering. “Get ‘em, boys!” They laughed, howling at the thought of one man versus their ranks.

His feet took off before he knew it, breaking out into a full-fledged sprint and sliding straight-legged into cover behind the nearest wooden crate. It wouldn’t protect him for long, but it shielded him from the hail of gunfire raining down on him long enough to gather his bearings, slinging his shotgun onto his back. He listened, distantly, as the Jacobson Boys began their name-calling, taunting him, cocksucker, shit for brains, son of a bitch. Matthew hardly paid them any mind, loading bullets into his rifle, counting them out as if each one summed up the years he’d waited to wipe out their kind. Their insults only get more colorful, having moved on to threatening to remove Matthew’s intestines and string them up like ornaments to spruce up the woods, his guts hung up on display to ward off travelers. How unfortunate that he’d already overstepped boundaries and decorated for them. Years ago he’d be terrified by the imagery, but he’s seen too much since then. This isn’t his first rodeo, having learned not to let their empty words play on his anxiety. At the end of the night, he’d be the one laughing. His bandoliers would be shot dry, not a piece of ammo left behind, and their bodies would clog the streets, a mess that the Pinkertons will have to gladly clean. It’s the least their kind could do since he did their work for them. Unpaid might he add. Not that he cared for money. He just wanted them dead.

Flicking back the safety, Matthew huffed, blowing a stray hair out of his eyes before he peeked out from the crate to fire, butt of the rifle pressed snugly into his shoulder. Not expecting him, Matthew gunned down one stood by the railroad bridge, first bullet catching him in the arm before he realigned his shot, hitting him again directly in the chest and killing him instantly. The body fell onto the tracks, limp, leaving Matthew with a twisted feeling of enjoyment. A piece of lead whizzed past his cheekbone, slicing into the skin and forming a large but faint cut, to which blood welled up to the surface, dribbling down to his jaw. Shocked, Matthew ducked back down and instinctively dipped his fingertips into the red fluid, wetting them. Just a graze. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he thought, the realization having kicked in that they’d missed his skull by only one or two inches. ‘They nearly took my damn head off.’ Their aim had gotten better, he’d have to be mindful of that. He doubted his hat could block another bullet for him, thinking back to how dumbstruck he’d been when he’d found a bullet embedded into the leather band after the Rathskeller shootout. Like bark butterflies, bits of wood flew into the air, chipped off of the crate, and fell onto his raggedy, torn leather brim. His cover is close to being lost, nearing complete destruction. If he sat there much longer, he’d be defeated, letting himself get pinned down to a box. He refused to go out gently, setting up to drop another body and earning a bullet in the shoulder for his bravery, lodging itself in deep. Undeterred, he picked off two more men, continuing to lessen their numbers little by little. Give him an inch, and he’d take a mile.

Twenty more minutes went by in what felt like a millisecond, a flash of light behind Matthew’s eyelids: blood, sweat, and tears were lost to the dirt and dust, dried up and gone, soon to be forgotten. The last Jacobson Boy met his end, joining his fallen brothers, and Matthew felt victorious—righteous even, like it was his divine right to slaughter them all like a herd of lambs. The smell of gunpowder filled the air, partnered by a thick cloud of smoke that shrouded over the region like a ghost, hauntingly reaching out. It might’ve been bearable to breathe in before if it weren’t for the stench of death that had begun hindering his nostrils, bodies attracting the likes of flies. Watching them die, he hadn’t felt a shred of regret. He hadn’t felt anything. But now, in the aftermath, he was sick with satisfaction. Twenty-three men and one of him, all of them dead while he still remained. Sounded like a storybook tale, where he was the great, mighty hero like Perseus or King Arthur.

He mustn’t forget: he was a man, plain and simple. A man that made a promise he intended to keep no matter what. He was not a demigod, nor was he royalty.

Waiting until the fumes cleared, Matthew finally holstered his navy revolvers and let his Lancaster join the shotgun on his back, barrels still lightly emitting a plume of dark grey smog like cigarettes from the obstruction of rust and grime adorning the guns and their blackened steel.

“Yer men are dead, Jesse Jacobson! Come on out!” Matthew hollered, a bravado overcoming him as he stepped out into the open, overconfident, arms spread wide out towards the bodies that littered Bacchus Station.

The adrenaline had long since worn off, but that didn’t matter he’d told himself, ignoring the dull ache of the bullet embedded in his shoulder, grinding against the bone with every movement he made. While it needed to be taken care of, he pretended not to notice, too high on the feat he’d accomplished of taking out an entire stronghold. Jesse, their leader, was nowhere to be seen, fueling Matthew’s bluster. Had he fled and left his men to die like a coward? The thought amused him. To think, if all of Lou’s sons were like this, then Lou couldn’t be much more of a threat than them, could he? Arrogance continued to swell within him, growing like a weed. If his father were here, he’d warn him not to get too cocky. An image of a younger Matthew, ratty hair and bright-eyed, hunting a white-tailed buck entered his head. Arrow drawn back in a bow, aimed straight between the creature’s antlers, he held no doubt in his heart as he let the string soar free. He’d missed by a long shot, too overconfident in his capabilities. Don’t let your confidence fool you, his father had said, an echo from another happier time. He’s not out of the woods yet, Jesse is still not dead among his men, the memory should be a reminder of that. Yet, Matthew went deeper and deeper down his hole. Once he wrung Jesse’s neck, Lou wouldn’t be able to turn a deaf ear to him. Two of his sons’ blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly let the red stain his ledger, prideful. Another sin of his to bear. Matthew’s teeth ached, clenching them together. On long nights under the stars, he used to imagine biting the throats of Jacobson Boys out with armored teeth, and he couldn’t wait to get the chance to sink into Lou. ‘Oh, to be there when Lou finds another one of his son’s bodies,’ Matthew indulged, fancying the thought. ‘Or should I burn it? Leave a pile of ashes instead?”

**No.** Everyone deserves to bury their loved ones. Lou had given him that, dishonorable as he may be. Shouldn’t he do the same?

Matthew’s pride and cocky attitude would be his undoing. Thinking of setting fire to a man’s body that he hadn’t even killed yet. His focus should have been  _ finding _ Jesse’s whereabouts, not fantasizing his murder. That could come after. Matthew, at the back of his mind, knew how this ended. It was too late. At the sound of loud footsteps, bounding quickly up behind him, he realized, rather belatedly, that he was being ran at, charged down like a bull.

A much-needed reality check hit him, confidence blended back into fear. Too slow to turn in time, Matthew ended up being tackled to the dirt with a force so strong that he swore he felt the outrage powered behind it, his tattered hat sent flying off from where it was worn securely on his head. In retaliation, Matthew flailed his arms and threw back his right elbow, striking his attacker directly. Promptly, he heard the cracking of cartilage followed by a pained grunt and angry seething. They didn’t like that, gripping a fistful of his black hair and smashing his head into the dirt until he saw stars. His vision swam with black spots, disoriented, his struggle having ended quicker than it began, ultimately overpowered by his opponent. Once the fight in him died, his attacker released their deathly-tight grip on him, letting his face fall into a patch of dry yellowed grass. Heart skittering wildly, tattooing itself onto the inner side of his ribs, Matthew slowly situated from lying on his front and dug his elbows into the earth, delving into the grit and grime. On shaky arms, he supported himself, pushing up so that he could flip over onto his back. The sight he was greeted by wasn’t a pretty one: Jesse Jacobson, six feet tall, baring brown tobacco-stained teeth pulled back into a snarl, nose bleeding profusely from where it’d been broken, his stringy hay-colored hair thick with oil and grime, and a schofield revolver in hand, pointed directly between Matthew’s wide eyes.

It seems the nightmare is far from over, or it’s only just begun.

Jesse’s gaze raked over him, merciless, mouth turned up into a mean scowl before cracking into a ugly smile filled with holes. His eyes flashed with recognition. “Yer that McCabe feller, ain'tcha?” He questioned, conversationally, casual like he didn’t have a gun aimed to put a bullet in his skull.

Matthew, not one for sharing small-talk with his enemies, settled on nodding slowly in reply, his own frown deepening into a hard set line.

“I heard ‘bout whatcha did down in New Austin,” Jesse commended, words meriting admiration but by the next sentence spoken, the tone of good nature in his voice had died with the drop of a hat. “You killed my brother,” he accused, spitting with venom.

“Aye, I remember,” Matthew hummed, feigning ruefulness. Then after a few beats of silence: “ **He died screamin’ for his daddy,** ” he told him, reminiscent, while the faintest beginnings of a smirk started to play on his chapped lips.

Wrong thing to say. 

Unappreciative, Jesse set down a worn square-toed boot on Matthew’s chest to keep him still, weighing heavy on top of his chest and making it harder to draw breath. With his free hand, he leant over to grab his jaw with grubby fingers, digging his crusty nails into the patch of stubbly hair. The bastard, relentless, forced Matthew’s mouth open, watching cheerily as his shit-eating smile abruptly disappeared. Despite his muffled protests, the Jacobson Boy stuck the filthy end of his pistol barrel into the left corner, digging painfully into the the inside of his cheek. “Not so talkative now, are ya?” He chuckled, dryly, faces inches apart.

Matthew, unable to retort, tried to desperately set him on fire with eyes alone, gaze hot and defiant, and brow furrowed low.

“Y’know, one’a our boys, Finn McKinley told me ‘bout chu,” Jesse mused, gauging for a reaction.

Wild flames died in a sea of blue. The name alone caused the color to drain from Matthew’s face, stomach dropping like a plummet, and Jesse didn’t let that go unnoticed.

“Yeah… you remember him,” he mocked, laughing like a bell, ringing distantly in Matthew’s ears.

Finn McKinley. That’s someone he’d hoped to never hear about again. Even his dreams refused to let it go. He’d been fifteen and stupid on top of his hopeful naiveté. Finn was his friend, or at least he’d pretended to be one. Matthew thought the world of him. Shame on him for wanting more, to share a love between them. His feelings had manifested themselves, stomach fluttering happily whenever they got together, and when they split apart, he was left with a profound longing. Finn must’ve caught on, told him to meet him behind the Tracker’s hotel and filled him with optimism, saying he had something he wanted to admit to Matthew. _Liar._ **Piece of shit.** He had come into town alone, giddy, hurrying to meet up with Finn only to be surrounded by a group of older boys, knives drawn and hands balled up into fists. A dirty trick. He wished he could block it out, how he’d tried to fight back but there were too many; they’d pinned him to the wall at the back of the hotel, cutting up his clothes, leaving him tattered and in rags. Tiny, little incisions were strewn about his skin, scarring him all over. Finn McKinley watched, cheering his friends on with contempt in his eyes and wore a cruel, unforgiving grin. Matthew was unbearably angry, red in the face and gritting his teeth at the hatred-filled names thrown at him, insulting his character and damning him. They beat on him, not giving a hint of pity until he fell to the ground and curled up on the spot. Even then they didn’t quit, spitting on him, kicking him in the stomach and in the head, causing his world to split up and double. He had gone home later that day, bruised and battered to a pulp, lip bludgeoned so hard that his teeth had sliced it open and his nostrils leaked scarlet, still trickling like a leaky faucet. He couldn’t stop smelling iron or tasting the residual tang of copper in his mouth for weeks. His brother wouldn’t let him near Strawberry after that, and for that he was thankful, feeling heartbroken and beyond betrayed. Finn McKinley. The main factor underlying why he feared being cornered, or backed into a wall. Why he dreaded the thought of a fist-fight, close-quarters...

“He said somethin’ that I found  _ real _ interestin’,” Jesse’s voice continued, sounding revoltingly like he was trying to speak around a mouth full of cocaine gum, dragged him back to the revolver barrel crammed into his cheek.

A bead of sweat rolled down the creases in Matthew’s forehead. ‘Don’t say it,’ he silently dared, blood threatening to boil over like an unwatched pot, his temper brewing.

“Bet’chu like this, huh?”

The taunt did the trick, anger getting the better of him.

‘Prick. Absolute fucking prick.’ Matthew lashed out, gun in his mouth be damned, wanting nothing more than to flay him alive—to strangle him by the neck with bare hands and watch the light flee from the depths of his dark soulless eyes.

He didn’t get the chance. Jesse reacted faster than the strike of a match, pulling the schofield's trigger. With a  _ ‘bang’ _ like fireworks crackling, a searing pain shot through Matthew’s mouth, bullet going in and out, cleanly. His cheek tore apart, pieces of skin and tissue clinged on by thin stringy strands, destruction left in the bullet’s wake. A blood curdling scream pried itself from the back of his throat, vision going completely black without warning, body seized by shock. Matthew McCabe lost, he realized that, staring up at the sky, consciousness slipping through his fingers and groaning quietly at the bite of metal on his tongue. It hadn’t ended there. Refusing to leave Matthew to wallow in the dirt, not without one last word, the Jacobson Boy leaned over him.

“Brings me real pleasure knowin’ that I’m sendin’ you straight to hell,” Jesse sneered, but Matthew hadn’t heard it. It sounded like garbled feedback to his ears, hearing nothing over his own fretful heartbeat.

With that, Jesse left, the victorious.

It had taken Matthew hours of not dying until he finally mustered up the strength to start crawling towards the cargo building to tend to his wounds. Strawberry Shake could survive without him, he hoped, feeling wracked with guilt over having to abandon her among the tall trees of Cumberland Forest. He needed time to lie low and heal, and Bacchus Station would have to do, being most convenient. Four walls and a roof out in the back ends of the woods, far from civilization; it made the perfect shelter for muffling his cries when the dreaded time came to suffer, calling for him to carve out the piece of lead from his shoulder and stitch what was left of his mouth cheek by jowl. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but thankfully, the nightmare spared him of having to relive the torment he’d put himself through, how he endured the white-hot pain behind digging a bullet out with the blade of his knife, and the wasp-like sting of sewing a thread through flaps of hanging skin to knit them together again. Instead, the nightmare let him live through the week after he’d treated his afflictions, where he just lied on the wooden floors of the cargo hold in a pathetic heap, _thinking._ Brief flashes of hurt-filled memories played on his mind like a movie on a silver screen, cinematic.

He ached, emotionally as well as physically. He had thought of Emma. How she had bit her tongue in spite of the anguish she felt.

“I don’t want to see you again, Matthew,” she had told him, her voice as trembly as her lower lip.

“You don’t want to see me or your _ father  _ doesn’t want you seein’ me?” Matthew asked her, words sharp like the truth he knew, deep down.

She had shaken her head, little strands of stray hair falling over her brow and framing her big, tearful eyes, glass-like and green. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be, Matthew,” she pleaded, trying not to cry over him. He wasn’t worth it, her father had convinced her. Men like him never were.

“Won’t make it any less painless, will it?”

“Why can’t you just accept it! I don’t want to be with you!”

He craved her tolerance — _ needed _ it to withstand his own pain.

His mind had then drifted to Calvin. Fearless even in the hour of his death, time ticking by, each second a siren’s beckoning to him from the afterlife.

“Cover me,” he demanded, keeping his hat ducked under the torrent of bullets that poured down on them.

Rathskeller Fork, young and dumb, caught up in a shootout. The Jacobson Boys had come back to reclaim the property as their own through hellfire and bloodshed, but Matthew and the hired guns like him were being paid to stand between them. Over their heads, Jim Barlow sat on the rooftops somewhere, barking out orders to whoever amidst the desperation, dust, and smoke thick in the air.

“You go out there, you’re a dead man, Cal!” Matthew had yelled over the roar of a gatling gun, trying not to let fear leak into the cracks of his voice. Truth be told, he was terrified. Terrified that death would steal Calvin from him.

It’s truly a terrible thing—to love what death can touch.

“Aren’t I one, already?” Calvin insisted out of the blue, and Matthew stopped. Their stares met, a fleeting moment, and Matthew noticed the dark circles prominent under Calvin’s eyes, aging him. “These folks can still live, Matty. You can still live.”

The words meant Calvin knew the sacrifice he had to make, and he had accepted it, but Matthew— _ he couldn’t. _

“ **We** could live,” Matthew stood firm and took Calvin’s gloved hand in his own, lightly squeezing, their fingers intertwined.

Calvin looked him in the eyes, sad, but managed a thin-lipped smile at Matthew’s undeniably hopeful heart. “Sure. We’ll be alright,” he reassured, and he had sounded none too convincing. “Just do as I say, okay?”

And Matthew had nodded like he believed him.

He needed Calvin’s self-control to fight and remain unafraid in all the times he would look death in the face by himself.

Their traits became a part of him, it’s how he survived through the people he’s met and loved, by what they’ve taught him. It’s everything that he’s lived through to get where he is now, that’s who he is, retold again and again by his scars. One dream had brewed into a storm of heavy memories, weighing down on his being. It’s God’s way of making sure he never forgets himself. The nightmares are always cruel and  _ Lord _ , Matthew wished he had His mercy. He was tired of remembering.

Hopeful, naive Matthew, trying to find beauty in all things: in his nightmares and in his scars. The beauty lies within his pain.

(...)

The last thing Matthew sees is Calvin’s body, riddled with hundreds of bullet holes blooming flesh-like flowers, sprawled in the white sand of Rathskeller’s streets, lifeless amber eyes looking aimlessly towards the sun.

He awakes with a start, his lover’s likeness ingrained into the forefront his mind, flying up out of bed. His hand wandered to his father’s ring wrapped around his neck, fiddling with it until he finally caught his breath, the rise and fall of his chest slowing down to match the steady rate of his heartbeat. He couldn’t keep his fingers from drifting further, letting the tips brush over the scar that seeped into the corner of his mouth with the barest amount of pressure. His face started to heat up, a flare of temper rising to the surface as the dream came flooding back to him, a broken retelling of his life’s worst moments. Bacchus Station. Jesse Jacobson. Emma. Calvin and Rathskeller Fork.  **Not again.** ‘Ground yourself,’ he thought. He’s home. Back at camp with the Bloodfeathers. He’s safe.

No matter what he told himself, he still couldn’t swallow down his emotions for fear he might choke on them. Another restless night filled with bad dreams, and another day that he’ll be plagued by flashbacks, his focus lost on distractions from the past. Chores be damned, he couldn’t bear the thought of being near the other gang members, not today. Least of all Alissa. He might sock the ugly bitch in the jaw if she tried to rile him up, or  _ worse _ . Being kicked out of camp wasn’t on his list of priorities. This called for a ride, and whether that meant being gone for hours or days, he didn’t know but he needed to spend some time alone. Better Matthew spared the gang his company rather than risk snapping at his friends. He didn’t much feel like owing apologies to anyone.

Taking a moment to stretch his aching limbs, Matthew throws on his boots and slips into a new change of clothes before leaving his tent, ignoring the stares pointed in his direction. He kept his head down, putting on his worn hat and pulling it low, wearing it like armor to shield himself from curious eyes. Strawberry Shake stood by her hitching post, milky pink coat shining in the morning light, beckoning him near with the shake of her mane and a flick of her tail, the mare’s way of waving ‘hello.’ He returned her warm welcome by giving her a gentle pat on the neck, smiling faintly before grabbing her saddle and strapping her up for a journey.

“Bad dreams again?” A voice, smooth like honey, calls out from behind him, and Matthew knows it to belong to none other than Shannon in an instant by the warm tone of her Southern belle drawl.

“What in-?” Matthew starts, turning back from Strawberry Shake in time to see Shannon jogging up to him, spurs clinking with each leap she took. A wind swept through the plains, and she held one hand carefully atop her head to keep her hat from being carried away by the breeze.

“What’re you in such a hurry for?” She asks once she’s close enough to speak at level, a question in which Matthew raises a singular brow at her in reply, baffled by her behavior. Here he was, saddling up for a ride and then in she came in out of nowhere, like rain on a clear sunny day. She scoffs. “Don’t go playin’ dumb with me, McCabe. You went straight for Miss Strawberry Shake here,” Shannon clarifies, like that explained it. Her fierce eyes soften, stopping to reach over and rub the mare’s muzzle, whispering a polite ‘hey, girl’ in her ear to greet her and earning a playful nudge in return.

Matthew shakes his head, taking a small step back to give the two some space. He knows exactly what it is that she’s trying to pry out of him, but he doesn’t feel much like talking about his nightmares, pretending only to be confused further. “How you mean?”

Shannon rolls her eyes, not buying the act. “You didn’t stop to say ‘hi,’ or grab coffee. Shit, breakfast is ready, and you didn’t stop to eat any of that either.  _ Somethin’s _ up,” she insists, tearing her fond gaze away from Strawberry Shake to point an accusatory finger at him.

She could see right  _ through _ him, and it irritated him beyond imagination. Yet he couldn’t find the energy within him to jump down her throat, not when she cared enough to give a damn about him.

“Bad dreams,” he finally admits, agreeable, feeling too tired to argue.

“Knew it. You okay?”

“Honest?” Matthew huffs, a long-suffering sigh. “I feel like shit,” and it felt so much better to be truthful rather than to waste his breath telling lies.

“What’s ridin’ gonna do for ya?”

“Clears the head, I s’ppose. Replaces the images in my head with somethin’ better.”

“And does that work?”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. “Till the next time I try sleepin’.”

A shadow of gloom fell over Shannon’s daintily freckled face, doubtful green eyes studying him with pity and empathy for she understood what it felt like to not be able to get a good night’s sleep. “I s’ppose we do what we can to distract ourselves from the pain,” she murmurs, thoughtfully, and in that moment she looks lovingly to Adeline who’s sat in their shared tent, absorbed in a reading. “Even if it’s temporary.”

Matthew doesn’t bother following her stare knowing where it will lead him.“So wise,” he remarks with a soft smirk, a remnant of his true personality that couldn’t help but to show itself.

“ _ Charming, _ ” she retorts, punching him lightly on the shoulder to which Matthew chuckled at. “I ain’t no good with comfortin’ words, alright? Just… we’re here for you. Remember that.”

“Thanks,” Matthew tells her, and he means it.

Shannon nods, waving him off, unfamiliar with gratitude. Silently, she observes Matthew put one foot in the stirrup of the saddle before swiftly throwing his leg up and over the mare. She notices he’s missing something, waiting until he’s comfortably seated before pointing it out: “Not gonna take your photography machine with you?”

“Nah,” he replies, gripping at Strawberry Shake’s reins to pull her around. “I’m gonna enjoy the moment.”

“Better scram before Alissa wakes up.”

“Now that’s an idea,” Matthew commends her, giving one last tip of his hat before pulling off towards the trail and into the Great Plains.


End file.
